Psychosis isn’t just voices in your head and torturing bugs, but being unable to tell fantasy from reality. Stuck in my own personal hell but no one else can see it

my phone burns a hole in my pocket,

and i think all this "burning calories" has gotten to it

rub a friction rash between my thighs, maybe if you sand down for long enough there'll be a gap

Are these the pangs of birth or the aftershocks of death?

What awaits me beyond this shore?

And even now when legs and feet have failed me

The sand shows trails, like serpents, of this fragility

I bleed: the gravel grinds my skin and flesh

the vents in my grandmother's old car blow

cigarette smoke at my left knuckles

and right forearm.

there's something so cold about crawling back to the house and home

where Caroline kicked me out for borrowing her water bottle